Page 165 of Lush

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Why else would he have said no? Why he wouldn’t have agreed to our deal? Unless he had another plan,” I said. “Conrad loved his life, and he might have loved it more than you.”

The gun wavered—it moved like she was deciding whether to aim it right at my head or heart.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she whispered. “You’re trying to get inside my head, make me doubt him.”

She started pacing, sharp, jerky movements, her free hand pulling at her hair.

“He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t.” Nina’s head snapped toward me, her entire face contorted in fury. “Say it!” she screamed. “Say that Conrad didn’t turn on me!”

My heart slammed against my ribs. If I lied, she might see through it. If I told the truth?—

“Maybe he was never going to leave with you. He loved his status. Would he give that up for you like you thought?”

Her breath caught.

“Maybe he wanted you to believe that,” I continued, “so you wouldn’t question what he was really doing.”

“Stop it.”

“Maybe Conrad was only telling you what you wanted to hear.”

“Stop it!”

Her hand jerked—her finger pulling against the trigger just slightly.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay calm. “He stole money, Nina. He stole Reese’s ideas. That was never about you. He said he changed things, maybe he wanted to give the money back and stay? This life is the only one he knew.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispered.

I tilted my head. “Neither do you.”

Her lips parted, and for a second, I could see her working through it—every possibility, every question she never let herself ask.

Then, I struck.

“But Reese does. He found Conrad’s journal.”

Her entire body snapped taut.

“If you want the truth, you need his journal. Maybe Conrad did plan to run off with you, but he changed his mind at some point. Maybe he was gonna tell you or not,” I said, voice quiet but firm. “You need to know what he wrote.”

Nina’s fingers twitched around the gun, and she lowered it slightly. I launched myself sideways out of the chair, my arm swinging out to grab the knife.

Bang!

A deafening gunshot ripped through the air. The bullet punched into the wooden chair where I’d been sitting.

Too close.

I crashed into the table, grabbing the knife. I twisted on the ground, the steel handle cold in my fingers. Nina was already turning back toward me, her face twisting in rage.

I swung.

The knife sliced through the air, catching her across the arm. A shallow gash, not deep enough to stop her, but enough to make her scream in pain. She staggered back, clutching her arm in pain, and I lunged forward, our bodies colliding with a thud. Hard.

We hit the floor, and the gun skidded across the wooden planks. Her long nails dug into my skin, leaving burning red marks as her knee smashed into my ribs. I started to lift the knife, but she grabbed my wrist and pulled it away. I twisted, feeling the muscles in my back strain as I used my weight to roll us over. The cabin spun. Nina was under me, and I was on top.

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